Crimson Rain
by Shadow Mage Evelyn
Summary: No one could quite remember his name, but they knew him, the Bloodsoaked Angel, the scarletcloaked harbinger of Death. ONESHOT Vincentric Please read and review!


I wrote this after I watched a good friend of mine play Dirge of Cerberus...such a good game...somewhat crappy graphics, but such a good game...

Hope you enjoy! Please read and review!!

**CRIMSON RAIN**

_**BANG!**_

Smoke coiled slowly from the barrel, wafting on the breeze down his arm and back to his face, filling his nose with the distinctive, acrid smell of gunpowder. It was a smell that he knew all too well; a smell that hung about him like a second, intangible cloak. Another smell came with it, the scalded smell of bullet-burned flesh, charred from the flash of the muzzle as the gunpowder exploded, and the pungent, coppery scent of pouring lifeblood, the very essence of man.

It was the smell of death.

He watched impassively as the light slowly left the other man's eyes, watching his mouth twist in a silent scream of denial. He stared idly as those hands twitched involuntarily, dropping the rifle with a definitive _clunk_. He watched as the blood squirted uncontrollably from the small puncture wound in the man's chest, despite any feeble efforts to contain it, soaking the shirt front with a morbid coat of arms. Slowly, ever so slowly, the man fell to the ground onto his back, his limbs shuddering in his final moments. In a few moments, he lay still, but before his eyes failed him, he looked up at the one who had taken his life, his mouth forming an unspoken question. All that passed through his lips was a gurgling fountain of blood that ran down the side of his face, painting a harsh, scarlet smear bright against the paling flesh of his cheek. Some of the red liquid sputtered out of the bullet hole as he tried to push air through his breathless lungs.

Then, he died, his life snuffed in an instant's time.

The other man holstered his three barreled gun and knelt down beside the body, closing those blank eyes, trying to grant the spirit its final rest. Nodding in satisfaction, he stood up, his eyes moving out to view the horizon. He knew that it would only be a short reprieve. There were more of them coming. With a profound sigh that came from the very depths of his soul, he turned away from the cliff face, moving off to find the afternoon shadows that were clinging to the buildings behind him. He would make too noticeable a target out there in the open.

He melted easily into the shadows, fully embraced by their ethereal tendrils, a seeming inhabitant to their dark corners. He leaned against a wall in the alleyway for a moment, trying to build up his stamina. The last few days had been all cloak and daggers between him and his pursuers. He had to admire their determination and single-minded focus, but it was most definitely taking a toll on him. He'd have to end this dogged pursuit soon and today was looking about as good as any. His hand went to his gun belted to his thigh, but before he could draw it from it's holster, he perceived an audible _click_ beside his right ear and the sensation of a cold gun barrel barely touching his skin.

"Don't move," said a harsh male voice. It was a young voice, but it clearly meant business. He sighed from the sheer tediousness of it all.

"Drop your gun and put your hands behind your head."

He continued to stand still, testing the limits of this one's courage. He felt the barrel shiver against his temple.

"Do it!"

With a slight smirk, he turned to fully face his assailant. The young man trembled, and his bright brown eyes widened as the full realization of who he'd just threatened hit him.

He didn't stand at an imposing height, nor did he possess a wide, impressively muscled girth. In fact, he was only averagely tall with a hardy, lean frame. But he was someone to be feared, which many men did. No one could quite remember his name, but they knew him, the Blood-soaked Angel, the scarlet-cloaked harbinger of Death. His hair hung long past his shoulders, black as a raven's wings, and he was clad in form-fitting black leather. His eyes stared coolly at the young man, scarlet amber eyes, red as the very blood that ran through his veins. Around his forehead was wound a scarlet band of cloth, and clinging to his shoulders, moving mysteriously with a wind all its own, hung his signature feature—his crimson red cloak. The cloak was torn and ragged at the bottom, testimony to the violent, bloodstained world from which he had stepped. As the young soldier watched, the cloak seemed to twist and squirm about the man as if it was a living thing or an extension of the man's will. It seemed to reach out for the youth, as if it were all too eager to bring his young life to a crashing halt.

The man flexed his left arm, the golden claw strapped there glinting dully in the peeking sunshine.

"You'd be wise to put down your gun, kid," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, sounding more like an animal growl than a human voice.

"Or what?" the young man demanded, angrily, trying to fight back his fear. What could the man possibly do to him? After all, his gun was still holstered.

"Do you really want to know?" the man asked.

"Go ahead and try. You'll be dead long before—!!"

Before the youth could continue, the man grabbed his outstretched wrist and yanked him forward. The youth dropped his gun in surprise, and before he could begin to fight back, his opponent sharply drove his knee into his solar plexus. He made a harsh gagging noise, and the man landed a hefty blow on the back of his neck with his metal encased hand. With a soft grunt, the youth dropped to the ground, all the fight gone from his body as surely as the air in his lungs.

"Who…who are you?" he rasped out, looking up at the man. He struggled to keep from getting swallowed by the fast approaching darkness. The man just stood silently, waiting for the youth to lose consciousness. When that happened, he knelt down and rifled through the young man's pack, taking all of his spare handgun bullets.

"Vincent Valentine, kid. But, that doesn't matter," he said as he rose to his feet, sticking the supplies in a spare pocket. "You won't remember that when you wake up."

Vincent waited a moment before he walked away; he wanted to make sure that the youth was indeed unconscious and would not be getting up to attack his back. Satisfied that this was so, he vanished in the shadows. He couldn't waste anymore time around here. He had a rendezvous to keep. Drawing his trusty handgun, Cerberus, Vincent vanished into the encompassing shadows, leaving the youth to be found by his fellow soldiers.

About a mile from this brief skirmish, another young man paced listlessly back and forth, more just to keep his body in motion rather than any expression of nervousness. To any onlooker, he didn't seem terribly impressive, standing just five inches shy of six feet with a slender, compact frame. Despite this, it was clear he was well built, and his gait was easy and smooth, a warrior's walk. He was dressed in dark, somber colors, namely black and dark blue, with thick leather armor strapped over his left shoulder. A silver encrusted wolf face leered out from the bolt joining the shoulder armor and its belt strap that crossed over the young man's chest, looping under his right arm and coming back up across his back to join the other side of the armor. The same wolf design was on the silver earring in his left ear. He wore black gloves on his hands and a leather bracer covered his right forearm from wrist to elbow. Sunglasses covered his eyes, hiding them from view, further rendering his emotionless face unreadable. The wind stirred his spiked blonde hair slightly, and he checked the position of the sun with a sigh. Vincent was late, and he was starting to get bored. If Vincent didn't show up in the next few minutes, he was leaving.

"Sorry I'm late," said a gravelly voice behind him, just as the thought entered his head. He jumped a little and grabbed for the hilt of the large sword attached to his back, his whole body instantly on alert. His mind registered the voice as familiar before he pulled the blade free of its sheath on his back, and he turned to face the new arrival as he released his grip.

"Vincent," he said, nodding to the man.

"Cloud," Vincent replied, not fully coming out from the shadows.

"How have you been?"

"As well as can be expected when people are trying to kill you. You?"

"About the same."

Vincent's eyes narrowed.

"You've got a leg wound."

Before he could catch himself, Cloud Strife looked down at his right leg, looking at the navy blue cloth he'd wrapped around his upper thigh. It had darkened from the bleeding wound on his outer thigh.

"Yeah," he admitted, since he couldn't hide it now anyway. "One of those guys actually managed to hit me."

"You're slowing?"

"No."

He had answered too quickly, and he knew that Vincent knew the truth.

"Yeah, sure…me neither."

They both sighed, knowing that they couldn't keep fighting much longer. Their bodies were beginning to give out, and yet, they both knew that they had no other choice.

"So what now?" Cloud asked.

"Where are the others?"

"I sent them ahead. They should be well north of us, now."

Vincent nodded to himself, making a sound that could either be a reply or simple acknowledgement. It was hard to tell with him.

"We'll have to rest soon," he finally said after a moment's pause. Cloud shook his head.

"I don't think they'll let us. There's just so many of them, and too few of us."

Vincent didn't answer.

"Have you talked to Reeve?" the blonde man asked.

"Not recently. Why?"

"Cid told me he's looking for you. Said that he might be able to help us."

"The man's better off with pad and pen in hand than a gun."

"I know that. I thought maybe he knew how many more of these guys are coming."

Vincent shrugged, and then looked at the sky.

"We should be heading off soon. It's almost evening, and those bastards were practically right behind me."

"Deepground," Cloud said, more to himself then in response to the dark haired man's words. "What do they want?"

Vincent lifted Cerberus and opened it, the barrel pointing down, and he slid more bullets into the weapon, knowing all too well that he would need all of them.

"Don't know. Don't care."

He flicked the barrel back into placed and cocked the gun, giving a satisfied nod as he heard everything lock into place.

"Either way, they'll die if they come across me."

Cloud nodded grimly, his fists tightening at his sides.

Vincent looked at the sky again.

"Looks like a storm's coming," he said, and Cloud knew that he wasn't referring to the weather.

"So it does," he agreed.

"We'd better get out of here. They'll be here soon, and we've stayed too long."

Cloud didn't answer, other than to walk over to where his motorcycle, Fenrir was leaning. He swung his leg across, wincing as he felt the wound reopen, but he kicked back the stand and fired up the engine. Vincent watched it all with his typically detached expression, his face hidden behind the collar of his cloak. Cloud gave a quick wave and shot away in a blur of black and gold motion, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

Vincent looked around for a moment, drinking in the emptiness, knowing that soon, this small courtyard would be filled with Deepground soldiers, all aiming to kill him. He looked down at Cerberus, turning the weapon slightly to study the intricate workmanship of the black and silver steel. After a moment of watching the sunlight dance across its surface, he turned and started away, blending once more into the shadows.

"Just you and me, old friend," he whispered to the gun, as if the item were alive and possessed a mind of its own. He, of course, received no answer, but that didn't really matter.

It would be just him and his gun against countless enemies.

He nodded, a ghost of smirking curving his thin lips.

As it should be.


End file.
